


Scenes From My Head: Iron Bull Romance

by razorblade456



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, Sexual Content, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:11:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razorblade456/pseuds/razorblade456
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My f!Adhar mage Inquisitor is hiding something, and Iron Bull is determined to find out what it is.</p><p>In the relationship, the timeline is somewhere after she gives him the dragon’s tooth, but before the conversation in bed where IB discusses what everyone’s safe words would be. What else has passed is evident in the story. This story contains spoilers.</p><p>This part of my Scenes from My Head series, which is a collection of short stories and dialogue exchanges from Bioware games that have become firmly ingrained headcanon.  You can find more on my tumblr at hwills456.tumblr.com, search under SFMH.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scenes From My Head: Iron Bull Romance

Her bedroom was cast in a flickering warm glow from the roaring fire in the hearth. Normally, she would be lost in paperwork behind her ornate, wooden desk, brows furrowed and squinting in the waning light, only realizing he'd arrived when he gently pulled the documents from her hands. She'd look up and greet him with a cocky smirk and relief in her eyes. His arrival meant release— a few hours she didn't have to be the Inquisitor.

But tonight was different.

Icy tendrils of the nighttime air swirled in through the open balcony door. She stood, hands braced on the stone railing, looking out onto the snowy mountains cast blue under the moonlight.

He crossed his arms and stood in the doorway, watching her.

Her whole body was tense and shaking, but he doubted it was from the cold.

“Kadan,” he said. It wasn't a question, but a command for her to turn and look at him.

She refused, instead muttering, “I'm fine—I just need to be alone.”

If he believed for moment that was what she needed, he would have left her to her thoughts, but he knew her better than that. She was hiding something, and it was hurting her.

“Look at me.” Again, not a request.

And again, she refused, angling her head to keep her face hidden.

Light from the hearth inside caught bits of the bronze metal that adorned her horns. Looking at them gave him a queer sense of guilt and a sickening fury.

It was easier to accept human or elf mages, different races meant different rules, but she was Tal-Vashoth. Had she been born under the Qun as she was meant to, her horns would have been sawed off. Her full, sweet lips sewn shut. The fire in her eyes stripped away, leaving only an empty shell to be controlled and used.

It was simple to believe that the Qun wasn't for everyone, but regardless of what the Qunari called her, she was of his blood, his people. She was Saarebas. He believed in the Qun and its necessity for his people but that belief wavered when he looked at her.

It rankled him when he recalled what he said to her back in Haven. How he insisted she was not Qunari, she was Tal-Vashoth, and her and her parents were merely exceptions to the rule that all Tal-Vashoth were violent and crazy. She looked at him with that steely fire that he loved. The look that said he was a hair’s breath away from her using her elegant staff as a club against his hard head.

Now, he wondered if his words echoed through her mind.

At night, she would entrust her body to him, allowing him to give her the pleasure and release she needed. She trusted him with her fire, her fury, her joy, and her love, but watching her now he feared there was something she didn't trust him with: her pain.

He walked out onto the balcony and placed his hand on her shoulder. Her muscles felt like marble under his fingers.

“Kadan,” he whispered, uncharacteristically gentle.

He wasn't very good with the softer emotions, preferring to deal with emotional pain through physical violence, but there was no fire in her tonight. Just pain wrapped in strained control.

Her head drooped, and she stared at her hands. Her skin normally the color of sun warmed steel, were now blue as the shadows pocking the mountainside. Remnants of the Vitaar she wore earlier was visible along her cheek, accenting the ticking of her jaw as she clenched her teeth.

He slid his hand to her neck and slowly began to knead the knots along her spin. She didn't relax against his hand as he had hoped, but she didn't pull away either.

In a low voice, he asked, “Why won't you look at me?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” she uttered, a sucking wetness choking on her words.

Sometimes, he really hated being right.

He gripped her neck and pulled her toward him. She stiffened but didn’t fight against him. He almost wished she had. Recalling the Saarebas back home made him desperate to feel her fire, to feel her spirit that was too big to contain and too enthralling not to follow.

He ran a knuckle under her chin and lifted, forcing her to face him.

To his relief, there was a little fire left in her watery grey eyes, daring him to judge her, to belittle her pain.

“Satisfied,” she sneered, ripping herself from his hold and escaping back into her room.

Her rebuff hit harder than it should have. He was trained to read people. Her pain wasn't about him, but the fact that she held onto it, clutched it to herself and refused to let him in, hurt more than any dagger could.

He walked back inside, closing the door behind him, and sat down at the foot of her bed, waiting and watching. He was a patient man.

Arms wrapped tightly around her, she stood in front of the hearth not seeing the fire before her. After several minutes, she released a defeated sigh and asked, “What do you want, Bull?”

“I want you to look at me, Kadan,” he answered simply.

She laughed, sounding more herself. “You're relentless.”

“It’s part of my charm,” he teased, smirking up at her. A knot sat in the pit of his stomach twisting to the tune of her pain. His voice cracked as if the words were running along broken glass, “Look, you don't have to tell me what’s wrong, but I would like to know why you stopped trusting me.”

At that, she spun around, eyes wide with surprise. “I trust you. I wouldn't let you—touch me as you do, otherwise.” His accusation broke a hole through her control, and her emotions flowed more freely across her face: doubt, pain, want, need, fear, guilt.

He wanted to go to her, to kiss her until her lips bruised and desire replaced pain, but she didn't need that—yet. He looked up at her, doing his best to keep both his face and voice neutral, “That is trusting me to give you pleasure which, apparently, is not the same as trusting me.”

For a moment she stood, chewing on her response, before her shoulders finally slackened. She answered in such a defeated whisper that it nearly crippled him, “I don’t want you to see me this way—see me as weak, and I don’t have the energy to hide it right now.”

All the nights at the tavern when she would smile at the crew and drink too much and then at night ask for it a little harder than normal, he knew she was trying to shake something. He figured it was simply the stress of command, of being the Inquisitor, and a need to purge it from her system one way or another. Could he have missed something, or was he right but didn't appreciate the severity of how command wore on her?

“Why would I see you as weak?” He asked. It was odd to talk to her this way, pulling the answers from her as if she were a mark he needed information from. It appeared to be the right question, though, because her pain burned into a hot rage.

“You lying bastard!” Her eyes turned to slits and her nostrils flared. “A whimpering female needing comfort? Come off it, you'd cut off your own arm before being subjected to that. Passion, fury, violence, those are things you can handle, but not this.”

She prowled the small confines of her room, her anger rippling off of her. Watching her hands clench into fists, he only now considered the consequences of intentionally pissing off a woman that can shoot lightning from her fingers.

He braced himself for what could happen next. “Normally, you'd be right, but I've seen you face off dragons, demons, the undead, and armies of Templars, mages, and Wardens, so I doubt a few tears would change my opinion of you.”

Speaking of dragons, he’d never believed the legend more of Qunari’s dragon ancestry than looking at her right now. Her horns, back lit by the fire, glowed, and the firelight cast her features into a collection of sharp edges. All she was missing was curls of smoke snaking out of her nostrils, that and throwing fireballs.

He was starting to question his decision to aggravate her, but she needed to let it out and he always gave her what she needed.

She stalked up to him and, through gritted teeth, said, “You want to read me? Fine. Tell me what your Ben-Hassrath training sees.”

She didn’t make him work for it, instead looking at him with her pain laid bare across her face. Her eyes glistened, and her face was swollen and red. She'd been crying for some time. This was so much more than the pressure of command; this was grief.

There was a slight wound to his professional pride for not catching this sooner, but he was only now fully grasping her hold on him and the blind spots it created.

With carefully chosen words, he answered, “It doesn't take any training to see you’re in pain, Kadan. What I don't understand is why and why you'd think I would want you to hide it from me.”

When she moved to turn away from him again, he stood and gathered her to him. This time she relented, her body relaxing against his and using his strength to hold her up. He gently lifted her chin, so he could see her face.

“Tell me, Kadan. Tell me what troubles you,” he whispered.

He used the term of endearment over and over again, hoping what she meant to him would sink in. She was his heart, forever a part of him, and watching her suffer alone hurt him in ways that before her he could not imagine. There was a reason Qunari did not practice in romantic love. It had a power that not even the Qun could control.

She looked at him. Painted across her features was her want to confess at war with her fear of rejection. His opinion of her mattered, and she doubted the strength of that opinion.

Regret was another emotion he wasn’t really accustom to, but watching her struggle made him wish he had probed deeper, talked to her more, got her to confess her thoughts instead of only an outlet to forget them for a while. He moved his hand to cup her face, his thumb casting small arcs along her cheek. He would watch, and he would wait for as long as she needed.

She curled her lips tight against her teeth and pressed them hard together. Silently, tears trickled down her cheeks, running along his hand.

Finally, she answered, her voice again thick, “The Wardens are dead. They fought by my command, because I promised them redemption. I used their shame to fight my war, and now their numbers are so few, it may take over a century to regain what they’ve lost.”

Now that she had started, the words poured out of her, needing him to understand. “Hawke is dead, because I chose her to stay behind. She sacrificed her life for mine, and I used her death to gain the Wardens to my side. I used her legend, her memory, and her greatness as a testament of my glory. Every person that pledges themselves to the Inquisition does so believing I’m holy. They believe I am chosen by the Maker, that Andraste guided me out of the fade, because of this!”

She smacked her hand against his chest, the butt of her hand hitting him with a meaty thunk. Her mouth turned down low, and the cords of her neck strained against the confession of her guilt.

“I overheard two soldiers talking about me,” she continued, talking to the air more than him. “They were discussing how another man died on patrol, yet no one that travels with me ever dies. They believe it’s because I am chosen. They follow me. They die for me, because I’m the Herald-of-fucking-Andraste. But I’m not, am I? I’m a fraud.”

She focused on his face, and the pain in her eyes was too much for even him to bear. He released her chin and pulled her tight against him. She wept, her body convulsing and her fingernails digging into his back.

He finally understood. He needed the stick; she needed this.

He rarely thought of what her life had been like before all of this. She had that effect on people. In another life, she might have made a decent spy herself, effortlessly able to get people talking about themselves without them realizing she hadn’t given them anything in return. He did now.

As both Tal-Vashoth and a mage, she would have spent most of her life justifying her very existence. Her parents taught her to fear the Ben-Hassrath for good reason. If he had been anyone else, she would be dead. Honestly, he was surprised he never received orders to kill her after this was all over. The point was rather moot, now. And if it wasn't her own people trying to kill her, everyone else feared her for simply what her grey skin and horns represented.

Now, she had thousands that pledged their lives to her, knowing little more than the legends told through whispers. When they first reached Skyhold, he worried that she might lose sight of all of these lives since she didn’t have the luxury of knowing each one personally. It was quite the opposite. She took their deaths into herself, and when no one was around to witness, she’d grieve each one.

When her tears finally subsided, she spoke into his shoulder, “I know they need this. They need to believe, but every time they call me ‘Your Worship,’ I want to scream. I’m not holy. I’m not chosen by the Maker. I’m a mage. I’m Tal-Va-fucking-shoth.”

He wondered when what he said to her would bite him in the ass. Turned out, today was that day.

Instead of lifting her face to him again, he spoke to the top of her head, “You have no control over how they see you. You never will. You are not Adhar to them. You are the Inquisitor. They know their role, but for some reason, you doubt yours.”

She looked up at him, the motion tagging his chin with the top of her head. She flashed an apologetic smile and ran her fingers along the offended area.

He continued with her hand against his jaw, “It doesn’t matter how or why you have that mark on your hand. You are the only one that can stop Corypheus from destroying all of Thedas, which means your life is more important than theirs—than any of ours. If calling you the Herald of Andraste or whatever makes it easier for them to swallow what has to be done, then that’s on them, not you. I, of all people, understand the power of a name, but some things are just out of your control, Kadan.”

He cupped his hand over hers and leaned down to kiss her. It was gentle, far from the want he felt inside, but tonight was different—what she needed was different. He pulled back enough to lean his head against hers.

“You’re not alone,” he whispered. “I’m with you until the end. I followed you into the Fade, after all; it can’t get much worse, right?”

She laughed, a breath of moist air against his face. She reached her other arm around his neck and pulled him to her, her mouth seeking his.

At first it was a soft brush of her lips against his, before she opened her mouth to him. She tasted both of her familiar sweetness and salty from her tears.

He ran both hands down the length of her body, settling on the round curve of her ass.

She arched her back, pressing herself hard against him. Her other hand moved to the back of his neck, pulling him down to her. Her kiss grew deeper, her teeth nipping on his bottom lip.

He leaned down just enough to catch her thighs and lift her up. She wrapped her legs around him, and he walked backward the few paces to the edge of her bed.

Her hands moved back to his jaw, cupping his face to hers. She pulled back enough to whisper, “Bull, I need—”

“I know, Kadan,” he whispered back.

He left her hands to explore, tracing along the scars and tattoos down his back, while he continued to stroke and taste the sweet corners of her mouth.

Her fingers made their way to the buckle that held his harness in place, deftly releasing him from its hold.

He decided to go the more direct route of ripping her shirt open verses undoing the ridiculous amount of tiny buttons down its front. He didn’t really like the shirt anyways.

She barked a laugh in surprise and then slid the tattered fabric from her shoulders, letting it fall at his feet. She handled the delicate hooks of her undergarment, freeing her truly amazing tits.

Hand gripped in her hair, he pulled back hard, lifting her chin up and exposing her neck. With teeth and tongue, he tasted her skin eliciting soft moans in reply. He released her hair to seek out her breasts, stroking her with the pads of his thumbs until her nipples grew hard and she shivered against him. Only then did he replace his thumb with his mouth.

A more feral moan vibrated deep in her throat. One hand cupped the back of his head, while the other gripped his shoulder, the tips of her fingers digging into the hard muscle. Her hips slowly rocked against him.

Releasing one nipple, he ran his finger along the band of her trousers and uttered, “We won’t get far with these still on,” before latching onto the other.

She replied with another moan, her head falling back and dark hair trailing behind her. Her hand slipped from his shoulder and reached between them for his belt. Her dexterity was really starting to surprise him. He was learning a lot leaving her hands free.

Before she got too far, he grabbed her wrist and pinned it behind her, but she was having none of it. She pulled back, and this time, she raised his face to look at her. Her lips were invitingly swollen from his kiss, and her chin pink from rubbing against the stubble along his jaw, but what excited him most was the amazing blaze in her eyes. Her look was clear. He could ride this wave of fire with her or not at all, but tonight, she would not be contained.

She untangled herself from him and stood up, naked from the waist up and glowing in the firelight. She placed one hand on her hip, waiting for him to decide.

As if there was a decision to be made. An archdemon could strike at Skyhold this very minute, and he wouldn’t leave her.

He rose to her invitation, in more ways than one, and stood before her. She slid her boots off, then her pants, before coming to him completely exposed. With open palms, she ran her hands down his chest, his stomach, and finally to the button of his trousers.

She lifted onto the tips of her toes and kissed him deeply, while she stroked him through the fabric.

It was his turn to groan, and unable to stand still, he reached for her ass and squeezed.

“Damn it, woman,” he said with a grunt, “stop playing with your food.”

She pulled back and laughed, her smile stretching across her face.

He kicked off his boots, and she did the final honors relieving him of his remaining clothes. Finally free, he pulled her to him and shuffled towards the closest flat surface.

They started at the wall, her legs again wrapped tightly around his waist and her moans loud in his ear. She nipped at his shoulder and clawed at his back, panting broken cries of, “More—deeper—harder.”

From the wall he carried her to the bed, but after a hard smack against one of the bedposts, they finally settled on the floor. Somewhere along the way, she ended up on top and the view even left him thanking Andraste.

It became a blur of lust and need. If he tried to pull away, she would grip harder and flex to pull him deeper into her. She was impatient, desperate, taking what she needed, and he gladly gave himself over to her. He prided himself on being the one person that would always give her what she needed.

She set the pace, her fingers gripping his ass and pulling him deeper. She sucked on his earlobe, the delicate flesh grazing against her teeth.

They became a tangled storm of limbs, rolling and crashing into things as they struggled for dominance. Sometimes she was on top, sometime he was. It was a battle that in the end left them both winners.

They finished lying on their sides, him behind her, his teeth buried in her shoulder, one hand cupping her breast, while the other stroked her clitoris to the matching rhythm of his thrusts.

Her head rocked back as she climaxed, the tips of her horns stabbing him in the back, and she convulsed against his grasp. With a hard squeeze of muscle and a loud moan of pleasure, she took him with her.

Happily sated, she fell limp in his arms. He kissed her shoulder where his teeth inevitably had left marks, before rolling onto his back and pulling her against his side. She turned to face him, her head resting on his chest, careful this time not to stab him with her horns.

They laid there in silence, their labored breaths only competing with the crackling of the fire. He traced his fingers down her back and smiled when she shivered.

From his position he could see the bed post cracked in two, and the canopy drooping to the floor. At some point they must have hit her desk, because books and documents lay strewn on the floor.

He thought about the early days in Haven, when she had asked incredulously, _“You’ve never made love? Never experienced a true meeting of body and soul?”_

He laughed, nothing more than a rumble in his throat. Love making seemed to lead to a lot of broken furniture.

Her fingers traced the puckered scar on his chest, a final gift from the Qun. It didn't hurt to think about it anymore. She had been right. He didn't stop being him just because the Qunari disowned him, and he had her, his men, and purpose. He didn’t need more than that.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice heard barely over the fire, “and—I love you.”

Love seemed such a small word for all that he felt, too soft to encompass all that they were, but it was the only words he had.

“I love you, too, Kadan.”


End file.
